


The Canterbury case

by Roshwen



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Johnlock if you squint and use goggles, Taking pulse, Very wee bit of The Office (UK)-crossover, Wee bits of angst, Wee bits of generic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock seeks reassurance when a case shakes him to his core</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Canterbury Case

‘Sherlock? It’s Lestrade. We have a crime scene we’d like you to take a look at, nothing too extraordinary, but we just want to make sure we’ve got everything covered. However, there is one thing you might find interesting. I’ll show you when you get here. O, and about that: don’t take John with you. Do you hear me?’

‘John is essential to my work, Lestrade, and you know that. Also, I don’t feel the need to examine your apparently boring crime scene for one tiny and supposedly interesting detail.’

‘It’s not a detail, it’s the victim. Hang on a sec.’

_......Loading Picture......_

‘On my way.’

‘Remember what I said about….Sherlock? Sherlock!’

 

ooOoo

‘John? It’s Greg. Listen, I have called Sherlock to take a look at a crime scene, nothing unusual, all seems pretty clear, just want to make sure we haven’t missed something. There is one thing though: you can’t come with him. I already told Sherlock you can’t come but I figured I would tell you as well, since he obviously is not going to listen to me.’

‘Off course he isn’t. Why can’t I come?’

‘Well, let me put it this way: do you by any chance happen to have a long-lost identical twin?’

 

ooOoo

‘You were right. Finch was the only one strong enough to not only lift that bust but swing it with enough force to deliver a fatal blow without hurting himself in the process. He has no alibi, a double motive and I have no doubt that the fingerprints you found on said bust will turn out to be his. I would say it is exactly what it looks like, that is, a complete waste of my time, if not for the resemblance.’

Lestrade agreed. When Donovan read him the victim’s details (Tim Canterbury, aged 34, sales manager at some small paper company, found dead in his office by his fiancée who was also his colleague. COD: blunt force trauma to the back of the head, presumably caused by a granite bust of Napoleon Bonaparte) he had not expected to find a slightly younger, softer version of a certain Army Doctor, whose brain had oozed into the carpet.

It was not just a slight resemblance, not he-has-the-same-hair-colour/eyes/ears/pinky toe, no, Mr. Canterbury really could have been John’s long lost identical twin brother. There were differences off course; Tim was slightly heavier, and not as muscular as John, the main difference between an office worker and a retired soldier, and he wore a suit. Lestrade had never seen John wearing a suit. But other than that, the man lying dead on the floor was an exact copy of John Watson.

When he saw this, saw the hysterically crying fiancée, saw the distressed colleagues of the bloke coming in, his decision had been made: call Sherlock and keep John away. He needed Sherlock to verify this as case as open and shut, and he absolutely did not need a doppelganger of the victim prancing around, wreaking havoc with everybody’s nerves.

His own nerves were already more shaken than he’d like to admit, and secretly he had been absurdly glad to hear John’s voice when he told him not to come with Sherlock this time. And if he was not mistaken, the case had unsettled Sherlock too. Lestrade was not as good in reading the detective as John was, but even he had seen the pause in his step when he entered the room, the hesitation before touching the victim and the furtive glances he kept throwing. Apparently, even Sherlock’s brilliance had trouble distinguishing factual and feared reality.

‘So you think this is just a grudge against someone with a better job and a good-looking fiancée?’

‘I find no reason to believe otherwise.’

‘Yet.’

Sherlock did not respond. The furtive glances had now evolved into a full-grown stare that he couldn’t turn away if his life depended on it. He _knew_ the man on the floor was not John. His reason and his observations told him that this was an office worker, an innocent soul who had never even dreamed of killer cabbies, Chinese number codes or consulting criminals in Westwood suits. Not an Army Doctor. Not his blogger, not his flatmate, not his friend. Not John Watson.

He knew all this, but for once his brain would not listen to the evidence and kept mixing up the body on the floor and John. When he forced it to stop, his brain, not taking too kindly to being told off, provided him with images of a dead or dying John instead.

It was distracting. He couldn’t _focus_ with this dead not-John lying there and he needed to focus because there was every chance that Mr. Finch did not just out of the blue decide to whack his colleague on the head with a tiny French dictator’s bust for some simple domestic reasons, but that he had had some help or at least a little bird who had laid the idea in his mind like a cuckoo’s egg.

This could be nothing. Or it could be a warning, a spark to start the burning of his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

John had a habit of playing games which involved Sherlock. There was ‘Guess the Answer from One Syllable’ but also ‘What’s in this container: food or fungus’ and ‘Has He Eaten Today’, with the expansion labeled ‘Has He Slept in the Past 24 Hours’.  His favourite, however, was ‘Deduce the Mood’, although he didn’t get to play it very often. The rules were these:

  1. Listen to Sherlock playing the violin, without watching him before or while playing
  2. Deduce the mood he’s in through the music he plays.
  3. Use other known methods (e.g. asking) to find out if you were right.



Rule no. 3 applied to every game.

When John came home from the clinic that afternoon, violin music was floating down from 221b to the hallway to meet him. He hung up his coat and paused in front of the stairs to listen.

Thirty seconds later he was running up the stairs and in to their flat.

Sherlock turned away from the window, bow and violin still in position, looking as calm and collected as John had ever seen him. 

‘Really John, from the way you are barging in I’d expect you to be in mortal peril. What is it, did you steal Mycroft’s umbrella?’

John was not fooled by the sneering tone. He saw the near undetectable loss of tension in Sherlock’s shoulders, which did not speak but screamed of relief. He heard the near inaudible tremor in his voice, an indication of the huge effort made to make it sound even. Above all, he had heard the man play. According to the music, Sherlock was going mad with grief and fear.

The violin never lied.

John had seen the picture Lestrade had sent him of the crime scene. It had been very disturbing to look at his own corpse, and he could very well imagine the effect it would have on the people who knew him. At first, he had not been sure how affected Sherlock would be, or how and if he would express any emotion at all.

It seemed John had his answers. Sherlock was shaken to his core, and he was going to pretend everything was fine. He should have known.

Previously, in the days before semtex vests and Jims-from-IT, John would not have touched an emotionally unstable Sherlock Holmes with a ten-foot pole. The risk of backfire was simply too big, and John did very much not like being verbally cut down by a consulting detective desperate to blow off steam.

But that was then, and this was now. Now there was a consulting criminal on the loose, building a fire that would burn Sherlock’s heart out and today might or might not have been the first hint of flame, even John could see that. So instead of letting his friend stew, he crossed the living room until they were face to face.

‘Let’s just imagine we had an entire conversation where you claimed you were fine, I said you were not, you were terrified out of your mind, and so on and so forth, until you finally agreed to let me help you. Think you can do that?’

Sherlock nodded, no doubt having already visualised the full discussion. Good.

‘Look,’ John continued, softly, ‘Lestrade told me what happened and it creeps me out. And I can see you’re terrified and I understand. Really, I do. But Sherlock, you of all people should know not to be scared until…’

John stopped, baffled. Sherlock had been staring at him intently while he was talking but now he had closed his eyes and laid two fingers on John’s carotid artery, right under his jaw. John firmly stamped down his first instinct to back away, forcing himself to stand still. Sherlock’s fingers were cool and steady and absolutely not moving away.

John was not stupid. He knew what Sherlock was doing, and he could make a very educated guess about why he was doing it. 

_He is taking my pulse. He wants to make sure I’m still here, and he is gathering evidence._

‘Keep talking,’ Sherlock suddenly commanded.

John swallowed, having momentarily lost track of his speech. Sherlock’s fingers bobbed along with his Adam’s apple, staying firmly attached to his pulse.

‘You told me not to be scared until something, and I’m dying to find out what that is.’

Apparently being terrified did not stop Sherlock from being a twat.

‘Right. It’s no good to be scared until there is something to be actually scared of. You have no proof whatsoever that Moriarty was involved in this case, and for some reason, I think you would have known if he was. Nothing will happen until he announces, loud and clear, that he is back. And you would do me and especially yourself a huge favour by not thinking out eventual schemes beforehand, and not letting that bastard have as much as a linen cupboard in that mind palace of yours until he deserves it. Do you hear me?’

John was not sure Sherlock had actually heard a word he said. He was still latched on to John’s neck, eyes still closed. However, his posture had entirely lost its tension and his breathing was slow and even.  He seemed to have calmed down, so John very carefully took the hand on his throat and released himself. Immediately, Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.

‘Did I give you permission to do that?’

John smiled. ‘Said the pot to the kettle. Now, before Moriarty starts ringing our doorbell, do we have anything edible in the fridge? I’m starving.’

 

ooOoo 

John went kitchenwards, while Sherlock was left standing at the window, the soft  _thump-thump-thump_ of John’s pulse stuck in a loop in his mind. If he concentrated, he could feel it reverberating through his fingers. John had been right. He could only play the game if he knew what it was, and it was no use thinking up schemes for Monopoly if the game would turn out to be Cluedo. 

So Sherlock pushed Moriarty into the basement of his Mind Palace, closed the door and locked it shut. When this was done, he went after John to prevent him from accidentally eating one of his experiments.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have not seen The Office: go and watch it. It's hilarious. Also, I have never taken anyone's pulse before, so feel free to report any and all blatant errors (also not-pulse related ones)!


End file.
